The Dead Sleep
by Immortalis
Summary: After the war with Millennium, the body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing is found but the corpse has secrets of its own...
1. Chapter 1

**Hellsing**—The Dead Sleep

**Disclaimer**—I have no legal rights or ownership towards "Hellsing," which is beyond awesome and is owned by the Master, Kohta Hirano. I am just an obsessed fan with a crazed imagination, having-no-life, and access to a computer and the ability to type. After reading this—or any fan-fiction of mine, you will most likely, and probably think I am sick.

**Rating**—Pg-13 to M for language, sexual comments and of course, violence.

**Title**—The Dead Sleep

**Synopsis**—The body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing is found on the battlefield but the corpse has secrets of its own.

**Author's Notes**—At the end of Bloodlust, I allowed my readers to choose from 5 stories for me to post—this was one of them, since there was basically a 3-way-tie. This is the shortest, so this will be first. I am planning on writing this and Two-Faced, and The Dying Rose, and posting at the same time. Sounds like a plan.

Like most my fanfictions this one came of a dream of mine. It was disturbing, but freaking awesome. This is more like an extended one-shot, and I am planning about 4-5 chapters, or maybe less. This is set after the war with Millennium. It really is not a sequel to Somniator, but rather a prequel to Derelictus, which is something that I have been planning—however will take some measurable time before the story itself is ready for outside readers. Because I am not taking any summer courses, this is my time to shine.

Ta,

Immortalis

Chapter 1—The Morgue

It is said that fear is the oldest tool of power, and the source of fear often comes from the vast unexplained and "unknown." In other words, we fear what we cannot or perhaps, will not comprehend. Fear is a mystery. Sometimes we are not sure what we are afraid of and in time, fear becomes a living entity. That is, it almost manifests itself and takes on a life form of its own, and then has power over us. A perfect example lies with Death, and as people tend to picture it formally as the "Grim Reaper"—a skeletal man with a toothy grin, dressed in a smoky cloak who carries a scythe in his bony hand. Death adapts like a viral agent, as well as the entity that each civilization, both new and fallen, have attached to it.

As humans, we know that we are mortal and therefore will inevitably perish, as there is "no sense of the irony of human existence, that we are the highest form of life on earth and yet ineffably sad because we known what no other animal knows, that we must die (**O**)" It is ironic that man created art, science, medical advancements and even placed a man on the moon; however, despite all our major accomplishments we, like all creature, will die. We learn from an early age, when we lost our goldfish or a pet-cat that death is as natural as birth, and it's all part of the life cycle. As everything has a beginning, it must also have an end. Things must perish to make way for the new.

Ironically, like life, death has a beginning, middle and end. For Tibetans there is a transitional state between death and rebirth. Death is nothing more than a waiting period, at least until a fresh womb will receive a free wandering soul. Therefore death is nothing but another phase of life and since it is a never-ending cycle there is no need to fear it, but rather to embrace it.

However Britannia is not Tibet.

Even Tibet is not Tibet…not anymore, at least.

This was the mindset of Dr. Trevalin, as he gripped a newly sterilized scalpel and turn to the corpse sleeping on his personal metal slab. Despite its sickly, pasty skin and the sour smell of newly discomposing flesh, the corpse looked peaceful, and perhaps almost submerged in a heavy cascade of dreams—or of nothingness, an utter and permanent oblivion. Maybe it was much more than that, in that "The power of the dead is that we think they see us all the time. The dead have a presence. Is there a level of energy composed solely of the dead? They are also in the ground, of course, asleep and crumbling. Perhaps we are what they dream (**O**)."

But enough the grim and morbid thoughts, and Dr. Trevalin returned back to his work and started the Y-incision. Straightening up, he wiped the sweat off his brown with the sleeve of his lab coat. Wordlessly, he plunged the blade into the flesh of the corpse sleeping on the metal slab. It sliced through the skin, muscles and tendons as if they were melted butter **O.** Pulling back the layers of adipose tissue he exposed the sternum and ribs—but looking into the body cavity, perhaps he expected to see a ball of light, some segment of the soul.

Nevertheless, as always there was nothing.

Wiping off the sweat of his brow, Dr. Trevalin returned back to thoughts.

The apocalypse had erupted between the three armies of vampires, humans and those in between—Outside the otherwise calm morgue, London and the world was on the verge of the abyss after its bloodbath in the war with Millennium. London was a holocaust and smoldered in ash, smoke and flame looked like a passage out of Dante's Inferno, as Purgatory. As Britannia's forces had been roundly decimated, the ancient land was left to the will and whim of the Midians, who were prowling and claiming with hungry eyes. It was a triage of terror and madness. Now with the endless chaos, murder and mayhem the true nature of humanity had been released—as panic-stricken, dog-eat-dog, mindless mob governed not by morals but by pure instincts to survival and thrive.

The Vatican deemed it was divine punishment; because England overextended themselves, fell into heresy and rejoiced in it—and course, because of the Hellsing Organization performed the worst sin, use evil to fight evil.

It had not even been 6 months since the first assault of war.

True enough, the war had brought forth a new world, and the ever-approaching future looked grim and dark indeed.

Just then, a young nurse with an ID tag with the name of Alice T. Henderson, entered the morgue dressed in the traditional scrubs and meekly asked, "Dr. Trevalin sir?"

He looked up and hummed with interest.

"_Iscariot_ is here to see you," she paused swallowing and then continued, "They demand an audience with you, immediately. Should I detain them, sir?" The look on her face suggest that she would rather avoid and run form their presence altogether.

"No. Send them in." She exhaled a sigh of relief. Recently the Vatican had become a symbol of punishment and most of all, fear and respect. "Go home, Miss Henderson. The sun will be up for another 3 hours. Make your way to the shelter."

"Thank you," she practically cried and left leaving her strawberry ponytail bobbing after her.

Beats of silence echoed afterwards.

Ah, Iscariot was personally here, more likely here to gloat and saturated themselves in triumph and power. Setting the blade aside with a loud clang Dr. Trevalin swallowed down his building resentment and fear, and said to himself _God save us all_. Surely the good Lord would not confide in the damnable Iscariot, much less the Vatican as man's personal protector and savior.

The door to the Morgue opened and Dr. Trevalin said to himself, "Very well…the chess pieces are set, and now the pieces are set in motion."

**OOO**

TBC

OOO

Yes this is short chapter but I wanted to set up the scene. Next chapter—Empty Eyes

Author's Notes

Two of the quotes are from a book that I had to read in my English 367.02 class, entitled "White Noise" by Don DeLillo. It wasn't bad, and certainly made you think. This is the synopsis—"Jack Gladney teaches Hitler Studies at a liberal arts college in Middle America where his colleagues include New York expatriates who want to immerse themselves in "America magic and dread." Jack and his 4th wife, bound by their love, fear of death, and 4 ultramodern offspring, navigate the usual passages of family life to the background babble of brand name consumerism.

Then a lethal black chemical cloud floats over their lives, an "airborne toxic event" unleashes by an industrial accident. The menacing cloud is a more urgent and visible version of the "white noise: engulfing the Gladney family—radio transmission, sirens, microwaves, ultrasonic appliances, and TV murmuring—pulsing with life, yet suggesting something ominous."

1. "No sense of the irony of human existence, that we are the highest form of life on earth and yet ineffably sad because we known what no other animal knows, that we must die (**O**)"

2. "The power of the dead is that we think they see us all the time. The dead have a presence. Is there a level of energy composed solely of the dead? They are also in the ground, of course, asleep and crumbling. Perhaps we are what they dream (**O**)"

**O **It sliced through the skin, muscles and tendons as if they were melted butter **O—**I have personally worked on cadavers, and I am quite serious a scalpel just cuts thought the skin like it is nothing.


	2. Empty Eyes

**Hellsing**—The Dead Sleep

**Disclaimer**—I have no legal rights or ownership towards "Hellsing," which is beyond awesome. I am just an obsessed fan with a crazed imagination, having-no-life and access to a computer. After reading you will probably think I am sick.

**Rating**—Pg-13 to M for language, sexual comments and of course, violence.

**Chapter Title**—Empty Eyes

**Synopsis**—The body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing is found on the battlefield but the corpse has secrets of its own.

**Author's Notes**—I am trying to finish this so I can turn my complete attention in Two-Faced and The Dying Rose, which are coming along nicely, I think.

Ta,

Immortalis

OOO Empty EyesOOO

"_Very well…the chess pieces are set, and now the pieces are set in motion_."

And Dr. Trevalin stiffened in defense and perhaps in defiance, as the agents of Iscariot walked into the bleak, cold and bright morgue. For a moment it seemed as though Pandora's box had been opened, spilling out sickness and wickedness—but this time disguised as righteous and beauty. But it would be more suited if evil itself masquerade as an angel of light. Their darkness spilled into the room, almost darkening it with their presence. First their silhouettes became visible against the blinding, intense fluorescent lights that were more suitable for exploring very possible inch of a cadaver, rather than unwelcomed and unsought visitors. However the ominous action of it only intensified the fear of them and of their influence and power. Iscariot was dressed in their ominous black robes, priestly collars and golden glimmering crucifixes dangling from their necks. Staring at the division that now had complete jurisdiction—both worldly and supernatural, in the world, including Britannia, it had become evident that the world had changed. No doubt, it had been for the worse.

And sure enough, standing between two bulky Judas-Priests was the demon himself, in the living flesh—Enrico Maxwell. **O**

However the war—or much less Anderson, had not been kind to him. After a violent fall in his glass box, then betrayed by the Paladin himself and afterwards swarmed by ghouls and at last, repeatedly impaled by the spears of Wallachia—now the man leaned heavily on a crane and because of the massive and numerous puncture of his lungs, he needed a constant supply of rich oxygen. Unfortunately, the Archbishop was recovering nicely, but he judged the world as well as he dealt with his recent disability, which is to say, very bitterly.

Ironically Alexander Anderson, his own personal Judas stood several paces behind him, meek and silent.

Deep circle encircled his eyes; nevertheless, his emerald-stone lost none of their peering potency and lust, but rather intensified. He wobbled closer and the oxygen tank squeaked, protesting against its owner mobility with each half quarter of the wheels. Lifting up his hand Maxwell spoke in a dry raspy voice, "Dr. Trevalin…"

Lifting up his bloody gloves Dr. Trevalin protested grimly, "I would advise against that, Mr. Maxwell—unless you want to get your hands soiled," he paused and then added with a touch of acid, "but given the recent events it might be a fitting imagery."

"Mmm…we are bitter, aren't we? I suppose losing England's most valuable and unknown hero would be quite a bow," Maxwell smiled painfully and adjusted the plastic nares from his oxygen tank, wheezing each word. "So is it true?" he asked eagerly with a smile of dark delight.

Dr. Trevalin replied reluctantly, "Yes."

Beats of silenced echoed afterwards, and then the Judas-Director crossed himself with shaking hands and rejoiced, "Praise to the Almighty God. It is a glorious day. England is at last, since the inferno days of Henry XIII, ours." His emerald-stone, glittered with their natural intensity at his Teacher, Paladin Alexander Anderson, who had it not been for the emergency squad would have succeed in the death of the power-hungry Archbishop. Technically dead by Alucard—but Anderson as a Regenerator was, despite his betrayal and attempt murder of the Archbishop would prove to be invaluable against the growing threat of the newly awaken Covenant of the Black Veil. So he brought back, but under strict supervision and direction.

Absolute power corrupts, and the Pope had sympathized with Maxwell and found promising possibilities in the deaths of Protestant England.

"Indeed, what an interesting development." The surrounding Iscariot members started to talk among themselves, whispering fiercely and exchanging glances that could not hide their mirth and disbelief. "And pray tell, where might the corpse be?"

Dr. Trevalin discarded his gloves with a loud thud in the waste bin and pointed to the wall of slots, each with their own door. "A-7 slot."

Iscariot, but especially Maxwell strolled over the mini door marked A-7 slot and sure enough there was the suspected namely scribed on a 4 by 4 notecard, a perfect epitaph. Stoking the metal handlebar Archbishop Maxwell said in dark voice, "Iscariot wants to see the body."

Dr. Trevalin answer firmly, "I think that would be highly inappropriate, Mr. Maxwell."

"_Archbishop_," he correctly automatically. "But such a demand would be highly _appropriate_, as I have an express order from his Holiness personally, and we only wish to verify the finding." Flashing a smile only Lucifer would be please in, he reached into his robes with measured deliberateness and pulled out, between his thumb and forefinger a piece of parchment with the stamp of the Vatican and at the bottom was the personal signature of the Pope himself. 

Turning towards Maxwell the good noble doctor hissed, "I am not under the control of the Vatican, much less his _Holiness_."

"With the Hellsing Organization roundly decimated and with the "supposed" demise of their Director, Miss Integra Hellsing—everyone now is under the complete direction under the Vatican, including that of the Pope," the Archbishop replied with a smug expression of triumph and sarcasm. "Take it. Frame it. Do with it as you like."

Dr. Trevalin seized the paper violently. Knowing it would be a fool's errand and most likely his death to defy the orders of the Pope, so instead he crushed and ripped up the parchment in tiny pieces and allowed them to fall to the floor and on Maxwell's shinny shoes. "Curse you."

"Language, doctor," he chastised. "We wouldn't want to say anything that might and a man of your respectable talents to the Hell-House **O**—No, I didn't think so." Maxwell pointed to A-7 slot. "I trust that we have an understanding, Doctor—so, where the Protestant Whore?"

"Are you so eager to see death?" he asked moving towards the slot.

"No," Maxwell quirked. "Only that of one."

Placing his hand on the door, Dr. Trevalin opened it and a flood of mist pooled onto the marble floor. Allowing the mist to clear he reached blinding inside and groped, pulling out the metal slab and the figure on top, under the white sheet. Pausing his hand at the corner of the sheet the doctor replied evenly, "I hope Iscariot can maintain a level of _respect_ for the dead."

Archbishop Maxwell nodded his head discreetly and pulled his oxygen tank closer, as he fingered his rosary, counting each bead. His emerald studied the hidden body with a mixture of anticipation, foreboding dread and anger. Closing his eyes he replied heavily, "Naturally…I imagine that the same would be returned…_if_ the positions were different, even opposite—which of course, they are not."

The Paladin exhaled a sigh and replied openly, "Yes…" Obvious, that had been his intention from the moment he threw the blessed bayonet towards the reinforced glass with hardened tektite composite that housed Maxwell—that _she_, would stand in the place that damnable devil was now occupying.

"Very well." Pausing for self-control Dr. Trevalin inhaled a breath of courage and then with the gentleness of a lover, pulled back the sheet, revealing a familiar face of an Englishwoman framed by moonlit hair. Despite the years of stress, her usual features were relaxed, showing none of her stern or confused wrinkles in her brow. The normal hue of golden skin was gone and replaced by the sickly pallor of a ghost. Her blue lips were slightly parted, as if in last prayer or breath. Instead of her brilliant and fierce sapphire-stone glaze, the eyes were clouded over with a milky substance and were lifeless, bloodless.

Sure enough, the Grim-Reaper had laid claim to the unyielding Protestant Knight, the Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing.

She was dead.

Now, the last possible resistant against the Vatican was hopeless unavailable.

Iscariot blinked in surprise at the actual evidence lying on the cold steel slab. So the report was true—No false coverage, lies, or forced manipulation of the truth. The rumor was true—'she was dead as the fallen Hellsing Organization.' Rome's mirth could only be measured against their surprise and sudden disappointment. Yes, even as their swore adversary, Iscariot wished for something much more grand. There was hatred between them, but also respect and revere. Now everything between would serve as nothing but a memory.

Perhaps in the end we are nothing more than temporary, and expendable pawns in the endless game of life and death.

"What is the cause of death?"

Dr. Trevalin answered in a the dullest voice imaginable, "In my professional opinion. She expired because of complications of her injuries. Most likely Hypovolmic **O** shock."

Anderson asked meekly, "Did she suffer?"

"There would have been pain, and then," he paused and finished truthfully, "it would have been like falling into deep sleep. And no pain."

"Not in hell," mused Maxwell.

No. Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing was not in hell—as Hell was now Britannia. No, again she had escaped that punishment.

To himself, Dr. Trevalin mused that if Pandora's box had been opened than all was not yet lost. Then again, hope remained.

OOO

TBC

OOO

This is not over, not yet—maybe about half way. Next chapter—Lazarus

1. There was the demon himself in the flesh—Enrico Maxwell. **O**

2. Hypovolmic shock **O**—serious loss of blood.

3. Hell-House **O—**A jailhouse for sinners, who are against the Church.

Ta,

Immortalis


	3. Lazarus

**Hellsing**—The Dead Sleep

**Disclaimer**—I have no legal rights or ownership towards "Hellsing," which is beyond awesome. I am just an obsessed fan with a crazed imagination, having-no-life and access to a computer. After reading you will probably think I am sick. 

**Rating**—Pg-13 to M for language, sexual comments and of course, violence. 

**Chapter Title**—Lazarus

**Synopsis**—The body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing is found on the battlefield but the corpse has secrets of its own. 

**Author's Notes**—I am trying to finish this so I can turn my complete attention in Two-Faced and The Dying Rose, which are coming along nicely, I think. As you find out there is a perfect reason why this chapter is named Lazarus, I am sure you can imagine. If not, don't worry it will be more obvious.

Ta,

Immortalis

OOO

Lazarus

OOO

_Anderson asked meekly, "Did she suffer?"_

_"There would have been pain, and then," he paused and finished truthfully, "it would have been like falling into deep sleep. And no pain."_

_"Not in hell," mused Maxwell. _

_No. Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing was not in hell—as Hell was now Britannia. No, again she had escaped that punishment. _

_To himself, Dr. Trevalin mused that if Pandora's box had been opened than all was not yet lost. Then again, hope remained._

HOPE…

Blissful and cruel hope…

"There," Dr. Trevalin said replacing the white sheet over the corpse of Sir Integra, and out of sight and maybe, out of mind. "I hope your curiosity has been satisfied—no matter how perverted, Maxwell."

"Fully," the Archbishop beamed.

"Thrilled for you," he replied with his tone dripping with sarcasm.

It felt as though he was finally signing her death-sentence as gave a push, moving the body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing, the last Daughter of Abraham into the dark depths of the A-7 slot. Again, the prospect of hope returned to his thoughts. HOPE. There would always be hope in the dark abyss and some would argue, even in Hell since the damned look upwards, and towards the Heaven denied them. It is there, just out of reach. Same for the dead, life has passed and it is there, beyond the line—the point of no return. Perhaps the same thing could be said for the corpse of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing, as even in death her glassy eyes glazed up at the metal roof of her A-7 slot, her own personal steel coffin—appropriate for the Maiden of Steel, who now laid cold and still as the metal she represented.

But a hand lashed out, relatively quick for a sick wounded man as Enrico Maxwell stopped his efforts. "Not yet, Doctor."

Dr. Trevalin narrowed his eyes. "Shall we leave the dead to rest in peace? Let her sleep—or what other preventions have you in mind, _Archiepiscopus_!"

"You flatter me—but I assure you that I have no such intentions," he promised with the slightest inclination of his head and his hand over his dark, unfeeling and recently hardened heart. "However…" he added slyly, "I do need physical evidence for such a claim as the demise of the Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing." And his hand reached, wrapping his long fingers around the handle of a scalpel.

"Maxwell!" Watching this Dr. Trevalin gave out a cry of protest and lunged forward, but a Judas-Priest slid between him and the Archbishop, gun posed if he would intervene. "Don't you touch her!"

"Calm yourself, dear Doctor. What I require is rather trivial, but necessary." Maxwell reached down with gentle lovingly care, plucked a single blond strand from her head and with the flick of wrist severed the lock from its owner. "There. We are done here, Dr. Trevalin."

There was something menacing in his tone that froze Dr. Trevalin and he laughed out a shaken sign. "I am a dead man, aren't I Archbishop?"

"Too correct."

As he guessed, they were going to kill him and the thought become more evident as Maxwell reached into his robes again and pulled out a .35 Desert Eagle, handing with a gloating smile to a Judas-Priest beside him. It was so ironic that here in the morgue, not ten minutes ago he had been pondering about death and here, not long he would be experiencing it firsthand. Would he see Death as the Grim Reaper come to collect me before the moment of his demise? For the moment, it seemed not. But honestly, would it be that bad? Would he even feel the bullet slammed through his temporal bone and slice through his brain as easily as his scalpel sliced through cadavers? Above all, would there be pain? He realized how all these questions were so trivial, because soon they would be answered to their fullest extent.

Before his death there was one last thing to do. Dr. Trevalin said quickly, "I do have a last request."

Blinking Maxwell inquired, "Really, and whatever might that possibly be, Dr. Trevalin?"

Pointing a finger to slot A-7 he said as if the request was simple and obvious, "Latch the door."

"Seeing how you were not only her personal physician but her friend, it is appropriate. Request granted."

"Thank you," he said with true modesty.

Dr. Trevlain took five whole steps—no doubt his last few and with a shaking hand grabbed the latch and closed it with a definite and loud snap. Forehead against the cool metal he whispered while at the while his other hand dropped and touched yet _another_ knob, which was actually the one of his intent. "Forgive me, Sir Integra. I hope to see you on the other side." He thought to himself, _but not too soon_.

Nuzzle at his temple Dr. Trevalin smiled, but unlike other smiles it was an expression of triumph as he watched with the last minute of his life—watched as the knob, which controlled the temperature to slot A-7, which unknown to Iscariot was beginning to raise degree by degree.

"Checkmate'" he said with his last breath.

**OOO**

TBC

**OOO**

How sad, I really didn't want to kill Dr. Trevalin but it was evitable. What a shame. It is so funny that Dr. Trevlain only showed up in one episode on Hellsing Amine—Master of Monster, and yet he is in a lot of fanficitons. Sorry, but I had no choice. Next chapter—Purgatory.

Be back soon.

Immortalis


	4. Purgatory

**Hellsing**—The Dead Sleep

**Disclaimer**—I have no legal rights or ownership towards "Hellsing," which is beyond awesome. I am just an obsessed fan with a crazed imagination, having-no-life and access to a computer. After reading you will probably think I am sick. 

**Rating**—Pg-13 to M for language, sexual comments and of course, violence. 

**Chapter Title**—Purgatory

**Synopsis**—The body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing is found on the battlefield but the corpse has secrets of its own. 

**Author's Notes**—I am trying to finish this so I can turn my complete attention in Two-Faced but especially The Dying Rose, which are coming along nicely. I want to post both at the same time, so everyone will be satisfied. I hate disappointing people. Okay here's where Somniator comes in and plays a vital role, but I warn you the word "somniator" is Latin for Dreamer, and as I said the dead do dream.

Ta,

Immortalis

OOO

Purgatory

OOO

Some people, especially children are frightened of the dark—however there are a selective few that relish in its endless dark embrace. It can be comforting, similar to the gentle and light caresses of a lover or the cocoon closeness of a blanket on a winter night. The dark or night as it is, is faceless.

As the dead dream…this is what Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates dreamt, lost in the heavy cascade of sleep and cold—a golden light illuminated a room with hundreds of seemingly floating candles, and each one was drowning in hot wax. Nevertheless of the light, not even the candlelight could fully penetrate the depth of the room, especially the walls. There were no windows and only one door, English-oak amongst the surrounding and endless darkness. The slate-floor was swathed in thick, heavily-thread Persian rugs and rich tapestries draped 'supposed' walls, wherever they might be. The blaze of the candles danced like fiery demons and light chased the shadows lurking around, in an endless pursuit—but especially towards the object of darkness entity, a coffin.

The Death-Box felt ominous and somehow had a dark foreboding presence about it, thick as smoke and hung in the air like a sacrifice to old and evil gods. Her uncertainty yet curiosity hung around, like the hangman noose on its victim, and it slowly suffocated her, inch by inch. Nevertheless Integra felt herself pulled towards it and when she was within reach cautiously peered inside, and was meet with a curious and yet, frightening sight. The box was already preoccupied as a familiar body was laid out on the satin lining, like a modern sleeping beauty—it was herself.

At once she protested in a soft voice, "But….I am not dead. Not yet."

Inside the dream she felt a cold presence inch up behind her and at last, Integra heard a voice that lingered close to her ear, "Embrace your immortality, Integra…and come with me."

Inside slot A-7, Integra woke alive with an imminent start and a gasp of breathing life.

But as the sleep ended, a haunting realization dawned upon her—she knew, just what it feels like to wake up, _inside a coffin_. Eyes open, she found nothing but the endless darkness and solitude—and of course, emptiness. It was quite and still as a forgotten and abandoned grave. She stirred in the box, moaning sleepily and swaying dreamily on a sea of infinite shadow. Instinctually she reached out half-praying that her sense of being closed-in would be proven false, or at least contradicted. There was nothing in this continuous mass of shadow and silence, but the coffin-like walls that encased her.

Nothing but a top, two sides and a bottom.

Integra gathered a breath of courage, as her hands balled up into fists and pounded on the steel box. "Dr. Trevalin…" she croaked. "Dr. Trevalin?"

There was no answer…

"I am not dead," she whispered. "I am not dead." A gasp escaped her and the distraught sound echoed in the steel coffin like a cruel lover, almost laughing and taunting her. The denial was so omnipotent that her erratic heartbeats pounded in her ears and could be nothing short of the roaring fires of hell overtaking the distressed cries and aching screams of the damned. "I am not dead!" And then she saw the flashes of the flames and the unimaginable scorching heat. Time was immeasurable as the soul-wrenching vision passed before her eyes. Finally, the intimate and suffocating closeness of a coffin became overwhelming, as she started to panic. "I am not dead."

She witnessed firsthand what it is like to be alive and be dead. With a swift kick the door swung open but the movement, force the metal slab along with her to shoot out like a canon and with a cry, Integra Hellsing slumped over the edge. After so long in A-7 slot and the dream, the florescent lights were blinding and each pulsing ray felt like it was eating out her eyeballs.

After adjusting to the blinding light and calming down her hyperventilating breathing, Integra crawled off the metal slab and gathering the only shred of decency, the white sheet walked over to the sink. She splashed cold water over her face and allowed the droplet to run down her neck.

Integra looked up with her crystal blue eyes and stared at the reflection looking back at her. It was Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing staring at herself, and yet, she felt as though the figure in the mirror was a stranger. For a moment she sensed as if the form, her body was an alien planet to her. Something foreign. In an almost sensual manner Integra examined herself—she wore nothing but the white sheet that been her own companion in the steel box. Her Indian copper complexion was gone and replaced with a sickly pallor. Dark circles darkened her red-rimmed eyes. Even her pale blond hair seemed to have lost its luster. While the reflection looked like her, Integra felt far from herself.

Speaking to the reflection she said, "Like Lazarus rise anew…the end is the beginning,' and then she slammed her fist into the mirror, shattering parts of it off the wall and into the sink. "Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing…is dead."

Through the one remaining piece of broken mirror, Integra saw a familiar figure standing at the entrance—it was the Paladin…

Straightening erect, Integra peered over her shoulder and sure enough, he wasn't a figment of her imagination. Anderson stood in his typical purple-trimmed, gray robes with a priestly collar bounded tightly around his thick neck and his olive green were fixed primarily and solely on her, and nothing else. Shocked at witnessing her alive, after seeing her personal dead corpse his mouth was hanging wide open. "No…"

Blinking Alexander Anderson exhaled a sigh. After holding her imagery inside his brain he shoved his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, and advanced closer and closer with each deliberate step. "Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing…have ye become the very thing you hunted?" Hands behind his back, he reached into the seemingly endless depths of his priestly robe and seized his bayonets with a grunt of rage. The blades gleamed in the florescent lights and danced in the reflection of her eyes.

She smirked doubtfully and her azure-blue eyes followed his towards the mirror and her own reflection. "I suppose not." Nevertheless, the bayonets remained secure in his gloved hands. "But then…you are alive."

"As are you Paladin," Integra said as if she was having a tête-à-tête with an old friend.

"Yes," he replied grimly, "it seems that I have more value alive than dead."

Integra noted with a degree of measured malice, "The same is not said for me."

Gripping the blessed-blades tighter Alexander demanded in a hush voice, "Why are you playing dead, Sir Integra?"

The Hellsing-Daughter pulled the sheet closer and she did so her free reached behind her and wrapped around a free scalpel. Her grip was so tight that her knuckles were turning white as the sheet that protected her modesty. When the Paladin came too close for comfort her hand whipped around and slashed the air between them. The action was so unexpected that Anderson jumped back, nearly losing his balance and falling to the floor. Looming over him Integra hissed, "Keep your distance, Judas-Priest."

"You are avoiding my question," he growled in his Irish accent.

Shaking her head replied nonchalantly, "And rightly so."

Jumping to his feet, Anderson raised a bayonet towards her and demanded yet again, "Why are you playing dead?"

"I have my reasons, none which I expect you to comprehend." When he stepped closer she lashed out again, nicking the bayonet with a spark and yelled, "Regenerator or not Paladin—at this moment I am the deadliest woman on the planet."

He implored, "Sir Integra Hellsing—"

"Integra Hellsing is dead!" she declared in a booming voice. "I am dead."

"No!" he counterattacked. "You are alive and breathing—despite the false report of Dr. Trevalin, who has already been silenced." He paused allowing the information to sink in. Bowing his head Anderson said in kingly voice, "And now, under the jurisdiction of Iscariot you are under arrest in violation of heresy, subordination and treason against his Holiness, the Pope. Come with me or I will use excessive force—No, you refuse?"

"Flatly and defiantly."

Anderson reached yet again, in his robes and pulled out a cell-phone.

Watching this she lowered the scalpel an inch and licking her dry lips, Integra stated harshly, "If you call in your reinforcements, you have signed my death-sentence, and then you are guilty of murder."

"The Vatican will not kill you," Anderson promised, but completely ignorant to the truth. "They would not."

"You are an idiot, Paladin. Think about it," she urged. ""I am the last and only entity against Iscariot taking over England. As I said, I have more value dead than alive," she paused and added slowly, "_especially now_." There was something in the tone of her voice that sent every hair on the nape of his neck to stand erect and he simply stared at her, trying to decipher the reason why she, a Hellsing-Daughter had been playing possum. "Please," she pleaded, the scalpel trembling in her white-knuckle grip. "I am begging you, not as Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing… but as a _woman_. Would murder me? Should the innocent suffer for the sins of the sire and dame?"

Fearfully of the answer he still inquired, "Whatever are you blabbing about?"

The answer was simple.

"I'm pregnant."

At those two words, both bayonets clattered to the floor.

OOO

TBC

OOO

This chapter took a bit longer than intended, but it is none. Yes, I know. What surprise! Next chapter—The Reason. Be back very soon. As you can guess it alludes to a HellsingXVampire Hunter D crossover, which is the universe Derelictus will be set in. But that story, I am hoping will be first posted in fall, or at least in the winter—that is, if enough people are interested. It will be set in an I-am-Legend world, where electricity and water are difficult to come by and The Covenant, who now name themselves "Nobles" are taking over the world, bit by bit. Naturally, humanity resists. Want to know more, kjust let me know. Again, I may or may not write this.

Ta,

Immortalis


	5. The Reason

**Hellsing**—The Dead Sleep

**Disclaimer**—I have no legal rights or ownership towards "Hellsing," which is beyond awesome. I am just an obsessed fan with a crazed imagination, having-no-life and access to a computer. After reading you will probably think I am sick. 

**Rating**—Pg-13 to M for language, sexual comments and of course, violence. 

**Chapter Title**—The Reason

**Synopsis**—The body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing is found on the battlefield but the corpse has secrets of its own. 

**Author's Notes**—As discussed at the end of the Purgatory chapter, this alludes to a future HellsingXVampire Hunter D crossover entitled Derelictus, which hopefully will be written. Alucard and D are my favorite vampires, and after reading a few very decent fanfiction I decided on writing one of my own. Of course, my fantastic and inspiring dreams help me as well. I am trying to finish this so I can turn my complete attention in Two-Faced but especially The Dying Rose, which are coming along nicely. I want to post both at the same time, so everyone will be satisfied.

Ta,

Immortalis

OOO

The Reason

OOO

_The answer was simple._

_"I'm pregnant." _

_At those two words, both bayonets clattered to the floor._ His mouth dropped as soon as the confession escaped her lips. "I am so terribly sorry, but could you repeat that, Sir Hellsing?"

"I am _pregnant_," Integra huffed impatiently. "Certainty you are not that hard of hearing, Paladin."

Watching her rant, he raised his hands as a sign of peace at the angered, recently pregnant and expecting mother and a Daughter of Hellsing. This gestured seemed to calm her as she repeatedly ran her fingers through her hair and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes, as if Integra was desperately trying to hide her embarrassment and the tears brimming to life. Inhaling a deep breath she said, "Anderson, please I want your word—on the Pope's life, your orphaned children, the bible—whatever you hold most dear—that you will not breath a word of my condition to anyone, especially Maxwell."

"The Archbishop?" Reluctantly he asked, "Maxwell isn't the—"

"No," she quickly snapped. "Never!"

"Very well," he paused then at once curiosity seized him and he asked meekly, "May I know the identity of the father?"

Silenced seized her tongue and she seemed unwilling and unable to answer, but somehow Integra managed to whisper, "None other than—it is _Alucard_."

At once he voiced his disbelief, "Impossible!"

"Obvious not," she noted as her lingered on her otherwise flat stomach.

Anderson heaved out a long lingering sigh. Granted when he had thought he had heard the worst, most damnable confession, here was one to top the bar and beyond—especially from this woman, this mother and Daughter of Hellsing. Part of him wanted to discard the priestly collar; however it was moments such as these that defined a man's worth and more importantly, the value of his soul as he set aside pride for another's salvation—Protestant or not. However there was one question that nibbled at his brain and he finally asked, "Answer me this, Sir Integra—was this of your will and choice?"

Integra inquired with a raised brow, "Are you asking if he forced himself and his seed on me?"

"Aye."

She paused before answering, "No…I had—I had a moment of weakness."

"And he seized it," growled Anderson, wanting to kill the vampire a thousand time and in a thousand ways.

"No…" Integra sighed deeply before replying, "This is a very precarious position. I want to kill it, this thing. Feel somewhat obligated to kill this abomination—I don't know, or more important why it happened but it is mine." Turning to him, worry creasing her brow. "Whatever it may be—angel or demon, it is mine own. _My_ child."

Smiling lightly Anderson removed his robe, slipped its warmth around her shoulders and the Paladin held her, as he would a sibling. "Such a child should not be punished. You have my word," he promised. Hoping to spark another conversation he queried with sudden apprehension, "What about Alucard, the father?"

Several measured beats of silence followed.

"He suspects and after tonight, he'll know," Integra said.

Knowing full well of her intentions he stated as-matter-as-fact, "So…you are running away—from England and especially from him. The child will never know. Must not. Innocence should not be polluted by this truth. Then again, maybe there is a purpose for this particular moment. _Retribution and salvation_."

"For whom?" she asked.

"Who can say," his eyes lifted up towards an unseen heaven and the entity watching them, "God works in mysterious ways."

OOO

THE END

OOO

There, it is done. I hoped you enjoyed it and if you are interested in Derelictus, please inform me. Originally I was going to have Integra wake up after her autopsy as a vampire, but after reading and watching Vampire Hunter D, I just would not and could not. In addition in Bloodlust, Yvette, the Blind Seer of The Covenant foreshadowed the beginning of Derelictus and I wanted to use it to its full advantage. In summary she said, "_Salvation_ lies in the future fruit of _your womb. _Careful as to _who sires_ it." It is Damien—or just D.


End file.
